The Renegade: A Tale of Robert the Bruce

by Jack Whyte

  The gathering assembled promptly the next morning in the room assigned to them, a smaller group on this occasion, with none of the attendants who had accompanied them the day before. Bruce found his father and Earl Domhnall already present when he arrived, and within moments they were joined by Nicol MacDuncan and Sir James Jardine who, as senior member of the Gaelic lords of Carrick, continued to serve as Bruce’s unofficial watchdog within his confiscated earldom.

  Lord Bruce brought them tersely to attention by voicing the thoughts uppermost in his mind. “Right, we have a quarter-hour, no more, so let’s address ourselves to what might be required of us. I expect Edward will be in need of information about what’s going on in Scotland, probably to confirm or enhance what he currently knows or suspects. That means he’ll have little to ask of me or Robert, since we are as far removed from Scotland as he is himself. Which means he’ll be questioning the rest of you—most probably you, my lord of Mar, since by your rank you’re the one most likely to be privy to the information he will want. Does that disturb you, that you’ll be asked to discuss Scotland’s politics and express your own opinions to England’s King?”

  Earl Domhnall shrugged. “No. Should it? It’s because of Scotland’s politics that I am here, as far removed from the stink of it as I can be and looking to the welfare of my own house.”

  Annandale looked at the others. “What about you, Nicol? And you, Sir James?”

  Sir James, as usual, was frowning as he growled, “Gin he doesna ask me to forswear mysel’ or betray my own folk, I care no’ what else he asks me. He’ll get the truth as far as I ken it.”

  “Nicol?”

  The Gaelic shrug was close to being French in its expressiveness.

  “I say the same. This King has treated you and yours with more respect and honour than our own King has, to his black shame. I’ll take no ill of anything he asks me, given the same provisos that Sir James has named.”

  “Good. He will know, from his eyes and ears in Scotland, of everything we know about, but what he will seek from you is confirmation, from the Scots’ point of view, of what he has heard. Most, if not all, of his reports will have come from English sources in Scotland, and the likelihood of their being deliberately misinformed cannot be ignored. He was greatly vexed, this past year, by Pope Celestine’s decree absolving the Scots lords from any requirement to conform to oaths undertaken under duress. Edward sees that as utmost perfidy, on the part of the Pope no less than on the part of the Scots. He’ll want to know about that—about how the community of the realm perceives it. About what difference, if any, it has made to the lives of the folk there. About how the lords themselves have received it. And most important of all, I jalouse, has it resulted in any real strengthening of Scotland’s will to defy him?” He looked at the three visitors from Scotland. “Can any of you speak to that?”

  Before anyone could respond, however, someone knocked at the heavy door, and FitzHugh stepped in and smiled at them, then drew aside without a word as Edward Plantagenet himself strode into the room, followed by two of his ubiquitous recording secretaries, both wearing the plain white robe and black scapula of their Cistercian Order.

  “Ah,” he said. “At it already, eh? Good, then let’s sit down and be about it. I have an hour before those damned Frenchmen come pounding at my door again.” He went directly to a high-backed seat at the head of the long table and waved to the others to take their seats beside him while the two secretaries busied themselves at the far end setting up inkhorns and jars of pens.

  “Pay no attention to the scribes,” Edward began. “They are here for my own requirements. I like to keep a record of everything being said, by me and to me, lest I forget important details afterwards. But if you are concerned, you have my royal oath that nothing you may say within this room today will ever be used to your disadvantage. I am here alone, save for these two, to speak with you as friends and guests without formality, in the hope of gaining insight—uncluttered and unfettered by the presence of courtiers and functionaries— to what you and your fellow countrymen of similar rank are thinking nowadays. I hope you will honour me by speaking as freely here as you would among yourselves. So, may we proceed?”

  He began, almost exactly as Lord Annandale had guessed he would, by expressing his outrage at the arrogance of Pope Celestine in daring to meddle in England’s external affairs by declaring the oaths sworn to him by Scotland’s leaders to be invalid. When he had spat out his disgust he sat glowering from one to the other of them.

  “That said, my friends, I hope I will have no need to say more other than this. I am lord paramount of Scotland, duly acknowledged by these same magnates who now have papal authority to flout me. That recognition of my rights, embodied in the title itself—lord paramount—was part and parcel of their acceptance of my fitness to judge in the matter of the King’s succession. They swore a sacred oath to that effect, as magnates of Scotland, in full recognition of my feudal rights in granting the possession of their lands within my own realm of England. Those oaths were freely given by free men, in recognition of my feudal status as their overlord in England. They sought a bargain—my arbitration in return for their acknowledgment of my neutrality in the matter being judged. My terms were straightforward and they were met—acceptance of my judgment and the temporary secondment of the Scots castles to my control to combat the possibility of future rebellion should my judgment be disputed. There was no enforcement involved, no underhand designs, and no threat or duress of any kind.”

  And that is true, thought Bruce. Unless you happen to perceive the threat of complete withdrawal of support thereafter, and the subsequent reality of civil war and anarchy beneath the guns of foreign-held fortresses, to be a threat or to deserve the name of duress of the most urgent kind.

  His point made, and plainly uncaring of what his audience thought of its validity, Edward moved on to question the three new arrivals, quizzing them minutely on their observations of the life around them in the aftermath of the Pope’s decree and ending with the very question Annandale had anticipated, the matter of the stiffening of resolve among the Scottish people to withstand what they perceived to be English interference in the realm’s affairs. He did not phrase his question quite that baldly, but it was not an easy one to disguise. His guests expressed the common view with which each was familiar in his own region, the northeast, the southwest, and the border lands respectively, that the populace would gladly stand united behind their King were that King seen to be willing and able to assert himself sufficiently to justify their faith. Bruce observed that none of the three committed himself to any local judgment that might conceivably affect his own people or their lands, and he was convinced that Edward, too, had been aware of it.

  From there, Edward switched to an unexpected topic.

  “I’m told on good authority that there’s a move afoot to constitute some kind of council of Guardians to keep a close eye on King John’s behaviour—those same Guardians, incidentally, who now find themselves papally relieved of the responsibility to adhere to the oaths they formerly swore to me. Can any of you enlighten me on that?”

  He eyed each man in turn, observing their discomfiture. Bruce’s own surprise was short lived, for his grandfather had always been fond of quoting the old adage that a secret shared is a secret no longer. Two, at least, of the three visiting Scots had spoken about the proposed council. Besides, the arrangements would all have been handled by clerics, and Edward’s priests and bishops were forever moving in and out of Scotland, servicing the spiritual needs of the English soldiers garrisoning the Scottish royal castles, making it inconceivable that news of such potential magnitude should have failed to reach the King’s ears.

  Edward’s eyes had finally settled on Earl Domhnall, and the old man shifted in his chair. “I’ve heard some talk of it,” he admitted. “But nothing I could swear to with authority … Though I can say that nothing has come of it, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Nothing yet. But
there has been talk of it,” Edward prompted. “Among your peers, at least?”

  “Aye, sir, there has. But there are peers and peers. I am known as being a follower of Bruce’s interests, and this matter of the council, should it ever come to pass, has been a Comyn notion. That fact alone would keep me uninformed, officially, if only to be sure I could make no report of it to my lord of Annandale. The little I know has come from others like myself, outsiders known to be Bruce adherents.”

  “A Comyn matter, you say … What about the Church? The information brought to me described the idea as a Church-inspired notion.”

  Domhnall shrugged. “The two are not exclusive, my lord King. Bishop Fraser of St. Andrews is a Comyn, as are several other Scots bishops.”

  “Hmm. Where is Bishop Fraser, by the way? No one has seen or heard of him in many months.”

  The question seemed to vibrate in the air as Domhnall of Mar blinked. “Where is he? Sir, I have no idea. I pay but scant attention to the affairs of bishops at the best of times, and St. Andrews seat is far removed from my lands.”

  Bruce was aware that Sir James Jardine was studying his fingernails as though they held some great significance to him, but his preoccupation appeared to go unnoticed by the King as Edward looked at the elder Bruce. “And you, my lord of Annandale, were you aware of this matter of a new council?”

  Lord Bruce shook his head gently, lying effortlessly. “No, my liege, I was not.” His voice tailed upward on the last word.

  “You have a reservation in your voice. What else are you thinking?”

  Lord Bruce inhaled deeply. “It came to me, my liege, that even were such a council being formed, it could only be for the good of the Scots realm—as the magnates perceive that good, of course.”

  Edward’s eyes narrowed and he plucked at the hairs on his upper lip. “I think you should enlarge upon that thought, Lord Bruce,” he growled. “Are you bidding me look to my own affairs?”

  “God forbid, my liege. I would not presume that far. I was but thinking of the skeins of conflicting loyalties that can torment the Scots folk.”

  “Go on.” Edward hitched himself sideways in his chair to rest an elbow on the arm and cover the lower part of his face with an open hand. Bruce sat holding his breath, acutely aware that his father was treading dangerous ground.

  Lord Annandale tilted his head slightly to one side. “I believe, my liege, that the issue of the two realms is obscured by the ordinary man’s misunderstanding of your status as lord paramount.”

  “What is there to misunderstand? The name explains itself.”

  Bruce could not tell whether Edward had been angered by his father’s observation, but Lord Bruce merely shrugged. “It does to men like us, my liege, but the common man has no regard for subtleties of the kind with which we must contend. If I may be so bold, sire, they see them but in terms of black and white.”

  Bruce did not fail to note the King’s flicker of an eye at hearing his father’s use of the word sire. The monarch then flicked his fingers impatiently.

  “Go on, man, I’m listening. What are you saying? What of this black and whiteness to this common man? I’m supposing that you speak of the Scots?”

  “Yes, my liege, of course, although the Scots are not alone in believing no man may serve two masters. Not that I am saying that need bother them,” he added hastily, “since it is patently untrue in the present case. John Balliol is King of Scotland, duly demonstrated by your own court to be the true heir. His is the realm. But I am speaking of appearances and of confusion caused by lack of understanding that these are merely appearances. Your overlordship is well understood by every man in Scotland who holds lands in your own realm under your goodwill. They openly acknowledge that your rights therein, pertaining to those privileges, are sacrosanct. And upon those terms you have their loyalty as feudal overlord, from the King’s grace himself down to the meanest landholder with small estates among your English possessions. All are beholden to you for the privilege entailed.” He paused, collecting his thoughts.

  “Not all men see it thus, though, and that is what I wished to bring to your attention. Few Scots below the rank of baron, earl, or bishop hold any English possessions, and while that might go without being said, I speak of it because it bears upon what I said about a man serving two masters. Those other, lesser men, lacking a place in England, also lack, perforce, any understanding of what such holdings entail. They cannot see why their leaders are beholden to you as overlord. Their own loyalty, if not their personal devotion, is committed to their King and his realm which is their home, and so they fail to see why their highest leaders should appear subservient to you and, in effect as they see it, to England. And human nature being what it is, the magnates have been … reluctant to explain the reasons to them, believing such things to be their personal affairs and no business of anyone else. And so their followers are confused and frightened, perceiving a threat to their own future where no such threat exists.”

  Edward still sat with his hand obscuring part of his face, but the scowl that Bruce had seen forming there had faded, replaced by a pensive frown.

  “You know, my lord Bruce, no man has ever pointed that out to us before, and I confess that despite your damned impertinence in thinking to teach me my lessons, you make much sense.” There was no venom in his words, and Edward was nodding his head, gazing towards the ceiling. “Fear and misunderstanding do breed resentment and unrest, as any man above a fool may know. But how would we redress this matter, to make it plain that we intend no threat to Scotland’s realm?”

  “I know not, my liege,” Lord Bruce said. “But the mere recognition of it would seem to me to indicate that it can be solved, with thought and careful planning.”

  Edward looked down the table to where the two secretaries sat scribbling furiously. “You have all that, Brother Aylward?”

  One of the two monks glanced at his companion for verification and then inclined his head towards the King. “We do, sire.”

  “Good, then go at once and make me a fair copy. The last part, containing my lord of Annandale’s thoughts, will suffice. Bring it to me as soon as it is done.” He waved them away, and the two Cistercians gathered up their implements and scrolls and left immediately. Edward watched them as far as the door, then swung back to his guests.

  “How much time has elapsed?”

  “I would say less than an hour, my liege,” Bruce said. “And more than half.”

  “Hmm. Those damn Frenchmen will be howling for my ear any moment now, but they can wait until I’ve done here.” He looked then at each man individually. “The Greens,” he said. “What can you tell me about those people? Anyone.”

  “Who or what are they, my lord King?” asked Domhnall of Mar. “The name is unknown to me.”

  Edward squinted at him, then jerked his head in acceptance. “Aye,” he growled, “it would be, you being from north of Forth. Sir Nicol?”

  Nicol smiled and spread his hands. “I am no knight, lord King,” he said. “I once owned a lordship, though, albeit one of the ancient Gaelic ones, but I gave up my succession to enable my good-nephew here to inherit the title. But the Greens?” He shrugged expressively. “I have heard of them, but only through rumour and exaggeration. They are outlaws, bandits and broken men, supposedly based in Selkirk Forest, though that’s like saying north of Forth—a small name for a huge place. Yet the reports I have heard speak of discipline and much coordination. Strange words, applied to broken men.”

  “Selkirk Forest. That is by Annandale, is it not, Sir James?”

  “Close enough, Your Grace.” Jardine, conscientious in his use of the English language so foreign to his tongue, was unaware of having used the Scots form of royal address, and no one sought to correct him. “It’s a full day’s ride on a good horse frae Annandale to the Forest fringes. But aye, it’s close enough for word of the Greens to hae reached us.” He cleared his throat portentously. “There is great argument on who leads them, for Nic
ol is right, they appear to be disciplined, against all you might expect, and if rumour is to be believed, they are well led. Nobody can say for sure how strong they are, how many of them, and the same goes for their leader. He’d have to be a warlock to be in as many places as he’s said to be all in one day, so folk are saying that it’s no’—not—one single man. Two, mayhap three of them, all dressed alike, to make folk think they’re all one and the same.”

  “And their name. They all dress in green?”

  “A lot o’ them do, aye, but no, they got their name for a different reason. We’re told they keep a careful eye on the common folk o’ the Forest, protecting them, and it seems that’s true. They’re quick to kill any man they think is guilty of abusing them. And on every corpse they leave behind a scrap of green cloth, pinned to the dead man’s chest wi’ a knife blade. It doesna happen much these days, but that’s how they began and that’s what gave them their name.” He cleared his throat again. “But that’s all I know, Your Grace.”

  Edward thanked him brusquely, then turned to stare through slitted eyes at Lord Bruce. Then he straightened suddenly and rose to his feet, speaking more loudly than he had to that point.

  “In this instance, Sir James, we know more than you do. These Greens kill more than so-called miscreants. They have been killing Englishmen for months, attacking our loyal troops about the execution of their duties. They have even laid rough hands upon our bishops, despoiling them when they were passing through the Forest in pursuit of God’s holy work. We have had enough of it, and the days of the Greens are numbered. Within the past three days I have dispatched a strong force northward in the command of our new Sheriff of Lanark, Sir William de Hazelrig, who is charged with rooting out and destroying the outlaw vermin of Selkirk Forest precisely as our forces commanded by the Earl of Pembroke did with their nameless counterparts last month in Essex. They, too, were outlaws, broken men who by their own misconduct had forfeited all claims to being English. These Greens, too, will be taught the folly of defying England’s strength.” He stopped abruptly, remembering perhaps that these were Scots to whom he was speaking so vengefully about deploying English soldiers in their lands.